Cherita, Followed by Fitzgerald, Not that the Twain Won't Meet, But Rather That It Just Didn't

The trees, of course are of such knowing (faucon)


The trees, of course, are of such knowing

Hundreds of years of drinking, growing
Filled with sweet sap richly flowing

Nowhere to be up and going
Dance in place to the cool winds blowing
Knowing all, and all unknowing


Knowing:

What I don’t know could fill the universe to overflowing, were it written in petulant purpled prose as small as an ant’s eye, recorded minutely in Swahili or Eskimo calligraphy on the sticky backs of beer labels, peeled off whole by bored people who don’t even know enough to know how much they don’t know.